


One Hand Washing the Other

by Yung_Mofftiss (OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink)



Series: Kink Bingo [1]
Category: Fringe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-26
Updated: 2010-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink/pseuds/Yung_Mofftiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the bar scene in Episode 2.01, “A New Day in the Old Town”.<br/>Kink: Hand Fetish</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Hand Washing the Other

After they toast to Dunham’s memory, Bishop has the barkeep pour them more bourbon and they move to a secluded booth to keep their talk private; Phillip has to carefully fold his long legs under the short table to keep from striking his knees against the gum incrusted underside.

“Let me see your hand,” Bishop requests.

“Palm reader?” Phillip asks, though he’s not able to smile with the joke.

Bishop’s smile looks a little depressed as well as he takes Phillip’s hand with both of his; his skin is cool from the glass he’d been nursing. “Something like that.” To Phillip’s surprise, Bishop begins to massage his knuckles. “You’re tense. I bet you didn’t even notice.”

“Not really,” Phillip mumbles into his glass, trying to disguise his discomfort with the sound of the ice tumbling against itself.

Bishop seems not to notice. “Ah, don’t worry. I’m a wonder at this.”

Broyles watches the other man's fingertip trace from the start of his wrist up his palm to the tip of his ring finger. His skin prickles as Bishop's finger repeats the action and instinctively his hand starts to clench. This is simply stupid—he can’t stand Bishop in the first place. He’s too arrogant and in many ways, naive. Broyles doesn’t have the time or patience to baby-sit him, that was what Dunham was good for.

But now he’s wishing that Peter had done this a long time ago. It’s spellbinding. Philip finds himself lost in fantasy, wondering what Bishop’s calloused palms would feel like against his jaw line, a rough thumbpad in the hollow of his throat, how strong of a grip his hand has. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the stained glass divider that separates this booth from the other.

“Mmm, that feels good doesn’t it?” Peter asks.

His eyes remain closed and he murmurs, “It does.”

Phillip doesn’t hold back the moan as Bishop presses his thumb hard against the base of his hand, his wrist giving a slight ‘pop’; nine years ago a perp had slammed his hand in an industrial freezer door and it hadn’t healed right because he’d refused to stop using it. This is the first time in years it had felt some relief.

“Want it a little harder?” Bishop purrs.

“Please?”

“Have another drink. Relax. We don’t have to go anywhere.”

He nearly tells the younger man that they’re a ten minute cab ride from his brownstone, that it would be so much nicer to have the privacy, that it would be much easier for him to relax on the couch… on the bed… but he says nothing.

“Don’t stop. More,” he mumbles as he raises his nearly empty glass to his lips.

“So are we calling it quits?” Bishop asks after a moment of silence.

“Hmm? Oh, no. I’ve got funding set aside. Resources.”

Bishop begins the stroke the inside of his palm, his finger lightly dragging across his lifeline. “Good. I’ve been meaning to ask for a raise.”

Phillip cracks open one eye to look at the younger man. “A raise?”

“Like I said, I’ve been meaning to ask.” Bishop smiles at him. “You’ll see what you can do?”

Phillip finds his lips dry and he runs the tip of his tongue across them, hoping he isn’t too obvious; Bishop could ask for anything right now and Phillip isn’t sure if he’d be able to deny him.

He jerks slightly in his seat when his cellphone rings in his trouser pocket; the ringtone is a gentle blipping that indicates it’s his own boss and the colour drains from his face. Bishop raises an eyebrow, his fingers still gently stroking Phillip’s palm. Suddenly Phillip doesn't see a drinking companion, but a very good-looking conman, someone who’s a little too charming for their own good. The way his lips are quirked seems mischievous, perhaps a sneer and Broyles jerks his hand away. He quickly downs the rest of the bourbon as he climbs out of the booth, leaving Bishop behind as he answers the phone, hoping to god that the bar is dark enough that no one notices how tight he trousers have become. He can feel Bishop’s eyes on his back as he hurries out, can tell the triumphant smile is still there.

It’s nights like these that Phillip remembers why he can’t stand scientists and their sons.


End file.
